


lapdog

by vosiferous (orphan_account)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Other, Ross Hornby is a Werewolf, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4666968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/vosiferous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross is always a lapdog, but after a full moon, he’s really a lapdog. In the coldness of their apartment, Sips doesn’t mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lapdog

**Author's Note:**

> though gargoyle ross is a gift from the gods, i am more partial to ross as a werewolf! something about big buff dudes with soft hearts and some chub to hold onto....hm!

On hot, sweaty summer afternoons, Sips always likes to leave work early and take the city bus over to the apartment complex where his court holes itself up. Their air conditioner works  _too_  well, sending a cold chill through the apartment during the winter, but none of the trio taking up the space really mind, and when the sweat is rolling down Sips’ neck like Niagara Falls, he doesn’t mind either.

The keys jingle in his hands as he unlocks the door, and before he can even get inside, heavy footsteps pound across the wood flooring. Ross. It’s no shock that he’s the only one home–it  _is_  the middle of the day and it  _is_  the second day after a full moon, but secretly Sips is thankful. It’s too damn hot to roll around with Smiffy on the couch or to bicker lazily with Trott for an hour or so before they all end up falling asleep from the heat. The cold apartment air hits him like a wave and he smiles, stepping inside and shutting the door before an expectant lycan tugs him in for a cozy (but thankfully chilly) hug. His arms are freezing, not that he cares because Sips’ body temperature must be four hundred degrees in this heat, and the exterior of his clothes are just as cold. Sips pulls him in for an appreciative kiss and Ross perks up sleepily.

Once Sips’ fancy leather shoes are disposed of by the door (in a compartment labelled by Trott), he pads into the living room and flops down on the long sofa. It creaks under his weight, and when Ross flops down beside him and curls up with his head on Sips’ lap, it practically groans with defeat. Trott had made Ross saw the legs off months ago, anyway, after Strippin and Benji had sex on it and broke one of the legs, and it just seemed to want to protest even more. Perhaps if it was a Disney flick, Sips would be inclined to think the couch was trying to tell him something. Maybe ‘stop farting on my face, jackass’.

On the television, something he vaguely recognizes is playing–Hunchback of Notre Dame. Ross is watching fucking Hunchback of Notre Dame. “Come  _on_ , Ross,” Sips complains, though it’s lacking of real conviction. The truth is, he loves the movie, and he and Ross periodically have sleepovers at Sips’ fancy high-rise where they crank up the surround sound and just sing at each other. (Thankfully, Sips pays off all the noise complaint fines he racks up. He even has a separate bank account for it.) “Lord of the Rings again?”

Ross laughs, and Sips strokes his fingers through the lycan’s curly hair. “Yeah, sorry. I’m a bit sick after the moon. Besides, this is my favorite part! Frodo throws Dumbledore off the Eiffel Tower and then freezes him in carbonite!” They know this dialogue by heart, they’ve repeated variations of it a million and some times, but it never ceases to bring a smile to Sips’ face.

His fingers wander to Ross’ jaw, stroking the curls there and tugging lightly. Ross sighs happily, which Sips responds to by leaning over to stare at him upside-down. “Hey, what’s the big idea getting all sappy on me, Sparky? You got a heart-boner for your king or something?”

“That’s the idea!” Ross grins, lifting his chin and kissing Sips’ lips at an awkward angle. “Is that a problem?”

Sips laughs and shakes his head, blowing hot air across Ross’ face. “Obviously not, or I wouldn’t be playing Spiderman and Mary Jane risking a crick in my neck, eh?” Sips presses forward and kisses Ross again, this time lingering on his lips, blowing more of the warm breath against his lips. He can practically feel Ross’ heart hammering in his chest and his face heating up, the latter of which makes him grimace.

“Aw, come oooon,” he whines jovially, throwing his head back and leaning it over the side of the couch. “Ross, why’ve you gotta ruin this beautiful cold air with your hot ass face? I’m sweating like a pig in a broiler over here and you’re  _killing me!_ ” He sticks his tongue out and makes a noise like he intends to vomit, making sure to stake his claim in Ross’ soft locks with one hand while the other works at removing his tie. Ross rolls around on his lap to make himself comfortable, sighing when content with his position.

It always strikes Sips as odd that Ross never wants to use a pillow. Even on Smith’s thighs, which look good in jeans but act as a terrible cushion, Ross is more than pleased to curl up. (He can’t speak for Trott or himself, the two kings of thunder thighs.) Maybe he just likes to be close to people, Sips thinks, to hear the sound of their stomach and their heartbeat in their hand as they rest it on his head, to know that they’re alive. Maybe it’s because he wants people to know he needs them. Or maybe he just likes to suck a lot of dick. Ignore that, he  _definitely_ likes to suck a lot of dick but that’s beside the point. It isn’t like he even minds so much. He likes having Ross as his lapdog, especially post-transformation. He scratches at Ross’ scalp tenderly and leans over to look at him quizzically, only to find that the dumb dog has already fallen asleep.

Sips blows on Ross’ nose, laughing when he scrunches it in his sleep, and leans his head back on the couch again. He stretches his arm over his head, using it as a cushion instead of the throw pillows just out of reach. He can’t move all too well with the hulking mass on his lap, but he doesn’t mind. He lets his head rest on the couch and yawns, the parading credit theme on the television drifting him off to sleep, Ross gentle breathing keeping a steady pace at his side. 


End file.
